Wonderwall
by Epipodius
Summary: She needs someone to put her back together. He is always up to a challenge.
1. Lucretia

**This story **_**will**_** contain very graphic depictions of rape. This story deals with many sensitive themes, rape, torture, violence and death being a few (However, not in the same context, I assure you). This is, by no means, a glorification of rape, but rather, an illustration of the darkness that consumes the victim. While essential to the plot, and brought up throughout the story, it is by no means the central point of the story.**

In most cases, the rapist is someone who knows the victim. A family friend, a friend's friend, a relative, a parent. Often times, it's a complete stranger; someone who plays God. Someone who chooses to ruin someone else's life. In many ways, it is worse than murder; there is no comfort for the victim, no refuge, there is no solace in death, no peace. Rape breaks the victim into two distinct pieces; _before and after_. There is the person who used to enjoy walking down the street at three in the morning, just to buy a pack of cigarettes, _before_. There is the person who sits by the window, watching the rest of the world go on with their lives, _after._

I didn't mind it. Being a spectator. Watching the world keep on living.

I had no outlet for my anger, my hurt, my grief, my pain.

Because I had no idea who had done this to me. I didn't know his name. I didn't know if he had a family waiting for him at home while he destroyed my life.

I don't remember very much from that evening. But what I do remember... I remembered with such clarity that it kept me up at night. Every night.

I remember the gravel scratching up my skin, tearing wide gashes along my face, in the palm of my hands, along my legs, across my stomach. I remember the taste of bile as it rose to the back of my throat. I remember the overwhelming numbness that claimed my legs and torso. I remember the burning in my arms as I tried to move them. I remember my hair being pulled out of my scalp, the taste of my tears as they fell soundlessly down my cheeks, running over my lips. I remember the pressure of the scream bubbled in my throat, dying to come out. I remember the sounds, the cacophony of New York City deafening the sounds of my struggle.

What haunted me the most was everything he did. His hand pushing the middle of my back down towards the ground, stilling my movements. His other hand spreading my legs, his hands violently ripping my underwear from my body. The texture of his rough fingertips tearing my body apart. _Him..._

It was my first year of college, and I was out with my roommates Jessica and Angela, at some dingy New York club filled to the brim with students. We were having a girls night, bonding. And somehow, something got into my drink. Someone thought that I was worth the risk. _That I would_ _do just fine._ I don't remember being separated from my friends. I don't really remember how I got outside.

I remember every excruciating detail of the attack. How it felt. The sounds. The pain. But my body couldn't move. I was trapped inside my own body. The zipper. The rustling of clothing. The stinging of my flesh. The limpness of my limbs.

I remember him wiping himself off on my skirt as he finished. I remember him saying 'thanks'. And then I remember the piercing pain in my back. He had stabbed me with a knife, aiming for my heart. But he missed. The doctors said that if that group of girls had found me ten minutes later, I would have been dead. But I don't remember much of that. I barely remember what anything for a couple of months following the... Incident.

I vaguely remember the hospital room. Angela and Jessica crying. My father sitting there beside my bed. My mother coming into the room, seeing me, and then promptly leaving. I remember a sea of faces. Police officers, nurses, doctors, therapists.

Barely a month into my first year of university, and already my life would never be the same...


	2. Camilla

Life has no meaning. Well, it does, but it isn't a concrete meaning. It isn't predefined, it isn't universal. We don't live for ourselves, and we don't live for others. So what do we live for? Who are we supposed to be? A girl, a boy? A man, a woman? An adult, a child? A mortal, a human? Two months ago, I would have told you that I am a girl, living her life for fame and glory. I would have told you that I am here to be the best. The best at what? Well... That was to be determined. Now, I wouldn't even be able to admit to _living_.

When I was in High School, I worked at an upscale French bakery. I didn't really need to, because my parents were wealthy, but I worked there for four years, every Saturday and Sunday. The baker, Francois, had moved to New York City from Paris two years prior, and had invested all of his money into the bakery. Francois would always rant about how the rich New York clients had no concept of good bread; they would always complain that the bread had too many holes, that it wasn't dense enough, that there wasn't enough yeast, that the crust was too hard.

"You see, Bella, the bread is best with nice, large holes. These holes-the air pockets- they are what _make _the bread. The bread can not be perfect! Always remember that, Bella! The more holes, the better!"

And I never forgot.

I know that everyone has their imperfections. I understand that no one is perfect. I just don't understand why they all chose their imperfections. Why everyone else in the world can work with theirs. This...I can't work with. And while I could spend the rest of my life in therapy, it wouldn't _fix_ me.

Unlike bread, my heart wasn't faring well with all these holes.

After declining therapy for the eight time, my parents kind of...lost it. My mother, Renée, wasn't a _bad mother_, she just wasn't a very _good one. _It's not a question of semantics, it really isn't. I don't hate my mother, and she never caused me any harm. It's more or less that she wasn't ready to have me. She wasn't meant to have children. She was to be a trophy wife who redecorated the house once every six months, and went on extravagant shopping sprees. But then I happened, and Charlie, my father, wanted his family name to live on. I was just, _convenient._ _I would_ _do just fine..._

No therapy meant that something was wrong with me. Because, really, rationally, someone who has just been raped wants to hash it all up in a 30 minute session with a complete stranger... Right? Therapists tried to indoctrinate me with the notion that I wasn't a victim. No, I was a _survivor_. How could I be a survivor? I was barely living, barely able to function, _barely surviving. _I eventually lost my patience and told everyone what I thought. I told them that they were full of shit. I told them that I wouldn't be an accessory to their mass brainwashing. Obviously, in their eyes, this meant that I was uncooperative, that I was probably too far gone, and, because there was something wrong with me, that meant that I was too much to handle. They tried sticking me in a 'center', they tried having me committed. I was 'emotionally unstable'... Well, no shit.

I'm not sure that I can probably voice my feelings about this. About what my parents' rejection feels like. If anything, I'll admit that it makes me feel like I'm the one to blame. As though the way that I feel is a burden on everyone. It's not particularly an easy pill to swallow. Through my naive 20 year old eyes it feels like I somehow had it coming, as though every time that I stole a twenty dollar bill out of my father's pocket, or sneaked some alcohol, someone somewhere was keeping track, and someone at some point was going to collect. The feelings of guilt consumed me, tore me apart, into tiny little piece. I didn't eat for awhile, I would cry for days on end and then sit quietly in a corner for three days straight. I would refuse to go outside alone. Doctors were saying that I was regressing, that I wasn't improving. And though I was able to voice my thoughts to them, I knew that some things were a lost cause; how could I possibly explain to men and women in white lab coats how I felt inside? How could I possibly make them understand that a part of me had been stolen? How could I tell them that _this_... this felt like the rug had been pulled from under me, and as though all the little ducks that I had lined up in a row had suddenly been slaughtered and turned into a confit?

I just couldn't tell them any of that.

So I was sent away...

Less than nine months after 'the incident'- as my mother had taken to calling it- I was sitting in a truck with a woman I had no idea existed. My godmother, apparently. In bumfuck Montana.

My mother and Esme went to High School together, and somehow, _logically_, this meant that this absolute stranger was a prime candidate to handle me, to take care of me. Clearly this woman could fix me, could help me sweep all of this underneath the rug. She'd get it all out of my system and return me to my parents, perfect and ready to be a 'good daughter'. I wouldn't ever step foot in a bar again- because I was underaged and because, as my parents liked to remind me, had I obeyed the law, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't ever have a drink. I would stay home and do homework on a Friday night. And I surely wouldn't go and get myself raped.

Waiting for me at the small airport was a tall woman who looked as though she belonged on the pages of Vogue Paris. Her stunning mane of rusty caramel was thick and undulating down her back in loose ringlets, her skin was pale and blemish free, only marred by discreet wrinkles at the corner of her eyes; these wrinkles were only the only indication that she was a day over twenty-five.

"Oh, Bella! I'm so glad you're here!" Her voice was gentle as she pulled me tightly into a hug. I hadn't been hugged in a long time, what with everyone walking on eggshells around me.

"It's nice to meet you, Esme." My voice was barely a whisper; it was hard to speak loudly these days. I wanted to blend into the background, I didn't want to draw anything attention to myself. I didn't want anyone to notice, less they try to hurt me.

"Let me get your bags, sweetheart!" She kissed the top of my head before letting go of me and running over to a small gate where an attendant was pilling up luggage from the plane. I walked over quickly, pointing out my bags and grabbing a couple of duffle bags.

Neither of us talked once in the car. The radio was playing some sappy, melodramatic Sarah Mclachlan song as we drove through miles of fields. While it was nothing, and I mean _nothing_, like New York City, I could appreciate the beauty of the landscape. The rolling mountains in the distance, the bright sun making the fields of wheat seem as though they were on fire. Esme just seemed as though she fit in with the decor. After what seemed like hours, we pulled up to a side road, a straight dirt road leading to a large house at the base of the mountains. The entire road was lined with an old wooden post fence, stretching for at least a mile, and as we got closer, I could begin to make out what was truly a spectacular house. Cedar wood planks, one story, windows, windows and windows. I couldn't tell you how many square feet the house was, but one story was more than enough; it literally seemed to stretch across the base of the mountain, it looked as though it was just meant to be there, as though nature had carved it straight out of the mountain.

"Welcome to your new home, Bella!" Esme turned towards me, her eyes bright, her smile wide. She reached over the center console and patted my thigh as she pulled into the driveway of the house. There were horses grazing the field to the right of us, a few of them looking at us, curious.

"We have eight horses; five mares and three stallions. In fact, we have a little foal who should be arriving very soon! Have you ever ridden, Bella?" Esme asked as she retrieved my bags from the truck bed, I grabbed a few from her, shaking my head. I was pretty certain that I was scared of horses, actually.

"Well, we'll just have to change that, now won't we?" She smiled brightly at me, leading me up the porch and opening the door.

"Carlisle! Come here and meet Bella!" She turned to me, clarifying who Carlisle was, "My husband."

If I thought that the exterior of the house was beautiful, there were simply no words to describe the interior. White walls, dark wood floors, golden rugs, white oversized couches, exposed beam ceilings, a large fireplace... It was as though I stepped into an issue of Martha Stewart Living, or some hoity toity interior design magazine.

Carlisle was a tall blonde man with kind eyes; I'd been finding it difficult to be around men since... 'the incident', I would fidget, my throat would feel tight and I would spiral out of control into a full on panic attack. But Carlisle instantly made me feel safe, he very much reminded me of a father, of someone who would protect his cubs, and would let no harm come to those he loved. Despite this, I couldn't bring myself to shake the unease that flooded my senses. It was difficult for me to differentiate men from... him.

"Bella, I'm so happy that you're here!" He smiled broadly at me.

"Nice to meet you, Carlisle." I kept my hands to myself, not wanting any contact. I instantly felt guilty for being so bratty towards him. As if sensing my discomfort, Esme started leading me towards what would be my room at the left end of the house.

My room was... perfect. The dark wood floors contrasted perfectly with the cool soft mint colour of the walls and the white moulding. The bed was a large four poster bed draped with a soft tule fabric; this room was warm, and cool, and balanced and just... wonderful.

"Everything in this house is yours to use, Bella. There's nothing off limits, and there's nothing that you can't use. I want you to feel comfortable here, okay, Bella?"

"Thank you, Esme." She closed the door and let me unfold all of my clothing and books and computer in peace.

Eventually I left the confines of my room several hours later, and wandered around, discovering the grounds by myself. The forest began a few yards from the back porch, a small trail leading to it and disappearing within the foliage and pines. Intrigued, I found myself walking along the path, certain that I wouldn't get lost or stray too far from the house. The may sun kept the air warm and I was perfectly comfortable in just a thin sweatshirt.

It was so different from what I was used to. I couldn't hear car doors, car alarms, people yelling, the radio blasting from six different apartments... All that I could hear around here was the wind blowing in the trees. I could hear my own feet thumping on the ground, and leaves scrunching under my shoes. There was a large rock up ahead and I found myself clambering up it, perching myself on top of the large boulder, giving me an amazing view of the forest. I heard the soft thudding before I registered the rumble... my breath caught in my throat and my heart starting beating quickly. Something was behind me and I prayed to God that it was merely a territorial dog. Slowly, I turned my head around, attempting to see what was behind me. Large burnt yellow eyes were staring at me. A fucking mountain lion. Okay breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I started moving my legs, slowly. I began sliding my body off the rock, so slowly that hours may have past. Once my feet were on the ground, I turned to see my predator. The large cat was now sniffing the area where I had been sitting, and I took this as a chance to run. And I do mean run. I doubt that my feet have ever hit the ground that quickly, my mind shouting a mantra of 'Don't look back!'. The second that my feet hit the porch my hand extended to the doorknob, opening it quickly, and of course, I chose this moment to look behind me. The mountain lion was stalking towards me at an incredibly quick pace. Fuck. I threw myself into the house, scrambling to close the door.

"Esme!" I yelled loudly just as the mountain lion's paws hit the glass plane of the door, its cushiony paws and claws squeaking against the glass. A terrified scream escaped my lips as I tried to control my breathing and still my heart.

"ESME!" I yelled, panic bubbling up in my throat.

Esme and Carlisle came running through the living room towards me.

"Bella?! What's wrong?!" She crouched beside me, her hands finding my cheeks.

I pointed to the rather obvious mountain lion who seemed to be intent on eating me through the glass.

Carlisle stifled a laugh and I whipped my head around at him. What the fuck was so funny?

"Oh Bella..." Esme began, her lips curving into a smile.

Obviously I was not in on the joke.

"That's Billie... our... mountain lion." Carlisle informed me.

"THEN WHY WAS IT TRYING TO EAT ME?!" I yelled, obviously they were not fucking _getting it!_ That thing wanted to eat me for dinner and they were calling it their pet? Where the fuck had my parents sent me? Who the fuck were these freaks?!

Carlisle walked over to the door, and my body started shaking with fear. He wouldn't...

He did.

He opened the door and the second that he did, the cat sprang for me, pushing Esme aside.

But it didn't eat me.

Of course not.

It started to lick me. Like an overexcited german shepherd.

"We found her in the backyard when we moved here three years ago. Her mother was probably killed by hunters, and she was probably the only one of the litter to survive. My son somehow managed to convince us that a pet mountain lion was something perfectly acceptable and since then, well, Billie's family." Esme continued on about how Billie was starting to cost them a small fortune in butchered meat, so finally she had put her foot down and Edward started to teach her how to hunt.

"She's perfectly capable of surviving on her own now, but, well, we like having her around. She's the very best guard dog ever, aren't you, Billie? Aren't you?" Carlisle was now scratching behind her ears, and the lion's concentration shifted from me to him. I tentatively reached up to pet her, and as my fingers brushed what I would call her cheek, she leaned in to me, a soft grunt noise escaping from between her large teeth.

"You have a son?" I finally ventured.

"Yes, I'm surprised that Renée never told you?" Esme questioned.

"Yes well, I'm sorry to inform you that I never heard that much about you from Renée. We don't really...talk." I didn't want to hurt her by saying that Renée barely ever mentioned her.

"I see. Well, anyway, yes, our son is named Edward. He's a little older than you, he's 23." She wrapped her arms around Carlisle's waist leaning her head on his shoulder. "He'll be back in a week or two from Egypt."

"Egypt?" I wondered out loud.

"Yes, Edward is a photojournalist. He's been touring the middle east and Africa for about a year now. We went to visit him a couple of months ago! One of the most amazing trips of my life!" Her smile was wide, and she beamed with pride for her son.

"That's pretty cool..." I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with living in the same house as a 23 year old guy.

"You'll like him." Carlisle winked at me before walking out of the kitchen, Esme following him.

I was left there, petting a huge cat who had just tried to eat me... Great.


End file.
